Author's Note: Yes, the particular technology in the chapter was indeed used in the 15th century. Not that we're averse to a few anachronisms in Disney-verse, but I like to keep the record straight! By the way, am I the only one who thinks of the closing bit to "Step in Time" from "Mary Poppins" at the end of this chapter?

"We're being attacked by hottentots!"

Musical Recommendation: "Crossfire" by Brandon Flowers. ("Tell the devil that he can go back from where he came/His firey arrows drew their beat in vain/And when the hardest part is over we'll be here/And our dreams will break the boundries of our fear.")

Lord Bertaut pondered his freedom as he leaned over the starboard side of the Codfish. It was almost three days since Phoebus' escape, and the English not only had refused to alter their plans, they had not even restricted Bertaut's privileges on the ship. If anything, he found himself even more at liberty. Whenever he drew the dark glances of the sailors and foot soldiers, Captain Fitzhugh appeared in their midst and addressed him more like a comrade than a prisoner. Many times Bertaut had tried to corner him and draw out an explanation, but each time Fitzhugh slipped away with some excuse. This afternoon, he appeared once more at Bertaut's side. From the Englishman's contemplative gaze, Bertaut began to hope for some enlightenment.

"Rather a pity, the timing of it all," Fitzhugh sighed. Bertaut kept silent, knowing this was the best way to encourage his captor. "Of course we know there's a good chance your little chap won't bring the news to Paris in time, and even if he does, it's unlikely your side can bring back their forces from Calais in time to defend Paris. But it undermines morale a bit. And had I not chosen to wait . . . well, relations among us all might have been more stable at this juncture." Bertaut struggled to remain distant. The air between them weighed on his chest, and he thought for a moment that a cloud had covered the sun, but he blinked and realized that the world was still as well-lit as before. "I chose not to reveal the truth until now," Fitzhugh continued, "as I considered you might be more open-minded after we had sailed a jot together. In the beginning, I could not hope to be believed by you. And even now, I suspect you may not be particularly receptive. But one can't wait forever."

Bertaut encouraged him with a courteous nod. He hoped this movement would conceal his anxiety.

"You are doubtless aware that your military mission was preceded by one of a more diplomatic nature. To whit, our ambassador was received in Paris and even journeyed a fair distance outside the city to meet with the Minister of Justice, who was at that time judging the assizes." Fitzhugh leaned forward. "It was he betrayed your plans, you know."

Bertaut gripped the rail, but otherwise gave no indication of his distress.

"So you see, you've no reason in the world not to fight on our side. It was your own country that cut the ties."

"If it was . . . the Minister - " Bertaut choked on the words. " - it was he alone. Not my country. Not my King." But it was fear for Margaret and his wife that inflamed his thoughts like the bellows of an armory. "And you have no proof. Why should I take your word?" He knew why - because the Minister was a cruel and hard man. He had always seen it, and even now he couldn't account for it. It was this inability to explain that once caused him to dismiss his misgivings. He still couldn't fathom why any man would betray his future family, but when he thought back to the Minister's glances and grimaces, he harbored no doubts.

"I have no ironclad evidence, 'tis true," Fitzhugh said. "Nothing but the words of our ambassador to myself, recounting the conversation."

Bertaut accepted the crumpled parchment and skimmed the words. The details were damning: the Minister had revealed the date of Bertaut's departure, and constantly referenced the growth of the French navy. True, no explicit connection was made between his own travels and the country's military ambitions, but only a fool could have failed to draw the line.

Fitzhugh snatched the paper away, and Bertaut realized he had just lost the only evidence that could have cleared his name. "You realize, of course, that I couldn't possibly allow you to retain such a damning correspondence."

Bertaut sized up the slender Englishman, who stood a full head shorter than he. He could overpower his opponent, but not the entire crew, which would certainly rush to the rescue. Besides, he had a new enemy now, one whose monstrosity overshadowed anything he had seen from the English. The thought that this man now perhaps had married his daughter-he reminded himself that the wedding was not meant to take place until he returned victorious, but so much time had passed, what if they had not waited, had rushed to the altar in his absence? If that were the case, there was only one solution: a duel to the death. And God have mercy on the soul of Minister Claude Frollo.

"It pains me to reveal such an uncomfortable truth, old boy. But surely you see now that our interests in fact converge."

"Perhaps they do."

"But, I say, there's one piece of the puzzle still missing. Whatever did you do to bring this backstabbing Frollo chap down on you?"

"I'm not entirely certain. But whatever the reason, Minister Frollo is about to find it wasn't worth it."

The funeral of Lady Agnes hung over the city for days like the scent of incense clinging to brocade. Denis left his figurines in the cupboard and spoke softly, so that Quasimodo would understand the need to be gentle with Margaret. Denis kept seeing her as she leaned over the coffin to kiss Lady Agnes farewell. She had been strangely composed that day, until she saw Frollo stand stiff and expressionless over his mother. Then she lost all composure, and Denis had rushed down from the balcony to escort her away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

Now it was May Eve, the last day of April, and Denis was privy to plans for a new kind of celebration that evening. He made the mistake of confiding in Quasimodo, who proved less than competent at keeping secrets. He scampered through the tower all day long, piping snatches of made-up songs, smiling conspiratorially, and asking if it was alright to tell Master "the secret" (of course it wasn't). Evening came, and according to their plans, Quasimodo went to bed early, while Denis convinced Margaret to slip outside for the celebration. She left Quasimodo reluctantly, only after Denis convinced her that the boy's view would, for once, be even better than theirs.

The Place du Parvis had been cleared, except for the giant maypole erected for the following day. The holiday riff-raff had gathered, including the gypsies, and it took Denis and Margaret no time to find Clopin frolicking in their midst. He was dressed in his harlequin disguise again - the costume in which he was known as "Monsieur L'Heureux."* No one knew if this disguise protected him from Frollo's men, but at least it made him recognizable as the city's unofficial master of ceremonies.

The last blue shades in the sky faded to black, and the bonfires roared to life like a series of signal fires. The crowd flocked to the flames and the wildest - led by Clopin - began leaping through the flames. Denis found himself hailed left and right by old companions of both sexes. The young women in particular were a bit brazen. Mademoiselle Nicole, an old friend from his guild days, appeared in a purple gown with ribbons fluttering through her black hair. The crowd began to separate into circles around the fires, and he found himself holding Nicole's hand. Margaret danced awkwardly across the way. Clopin refused to join hands with anyone, and instead went cartwheeling across the square. He vaulted up on top of a stack of crates, where he took up a wild gypsy dance to the tune of a fiddle below - he kicked up his heels, slapped the soles of his pointed shoes, and tapped his feet ever faster until they seemed a blur.

Denis had forgotten what a good dancer Nicole was. They broke off from the circle and wordlessly took up a dance he'd learned from the gypsies. Nicole's waist and shoulders undulated, serpentine, and his hands followed the movement of the curves. It was sensuous, but for him that sensuality was only part of the dance, a work of art like his carvings. His chest was pounding and pumping, and sweat from his nose and forehead left the taste of salt on his lips. It was so long since he had given himself over to the dance.

The music stopped to give them all a respite, and he realized he could no longer see Margaret. He found her a few steps away from the bonfire, perhaps overheated, but her smile was awkward and forced, like the smile he had sometimes seen her pull in response to Frollo, more a subservient grimace than a smile. Her brown eyes flickered gold in the light like the eyes of a timid animal. He wished he could bring her in, but it was out of the question. No gentlewoman, no matter how fallen her fortunes, would be seen dead performing such a scandalous dance.

Then he saw Clopin leap down from his perch. He bowed to Margaret with a flourish of his hat, kissed her hand, and whisked her into the wildest dance Denis had ever seen. Margaret moved only from the waist down, and only enough to keep pace with her partner, who tossed her from side to side. The sight reminded Denis of Old Poubelle, the weaver's wife, who used to dance passionately with her broom.

But as the music grew faster, Clopin's partner warmed and softened in the heat of the bonfire. She became supple, her mouth spread into a childlike smile, and all her tiny white teeth glittered in the light. Denis resumed the dance with Nicole, but his attention was no longer absorbed by the steps.

His chance came when a fifth dancer, a redheaded woman with her hands on her hips, sauntered up behind Clopin and tapped him on the shoulder. Margaret laughed and clapped her hands, apparently recognizing a friend, and watched the pair bound away. Denis bowed out of his engagement with Nicole and danced towards Margaret. Her cheeks were flushed, but he reminded himself that this was only natural for a girl dancing in the firelight.

"You're a fast learner," he panted.

"This is quite unusual for me, I assure you," she said with a smile.

"Hey now. Cut that out. Learn to take a compliment. Just because it comes from a poor boy. Doesn't mean you've got to throw it back."

Her reply was cut off by a sound like thunder. Margaret wasn't the only one to scream and cover her ears. Denis doubled over with laughter.

"I never saw any clouds," Margaret said. "It's just that time of the year I suppose. Should we take cover?"

He laughed harder in spite of himself. Above the light of the fires, a new light flashed.

"Denis, we've got to go back; you know how frightened Quasimodo is of storms. What's that smell? Like smoke, but - "

Denis wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "It's not a storm. Look!"

Her eyes followed his up past the rooftops. Another boom shook the square, and was followed by a burst of light and color like a spider web spreading across the sky. Margaret covered her mouth.

"Fireworks!" Denis said. "Bet they didn't have those in your little country hamlet, eh? It was Clopin's idea."

As was clear from the gypsy's even wilder gyrations and shouts above the awed gasps of the crowd. The rockets went up all along the edge of the square, and children holding sticks tipped with bursts of light like flowers ran through the crowd. Esmeralda appeared holding a light the same color as her eyes, which she passed on to Margaret. Margaret held it out from her body, still a bit uncertain, but smiling. Clopin took up a paean to May, and soon all of Paris was singing, both the dancers in the square and those in the townhouses above who threw open their windows to belt out the tune. The bells of Notre Dame began to chime, and Denis felt his own heart expanding and glowing like the fireworks at the thought of Quasimodo using the bells to join all Paris in their celebration.

All except for Claude Frollo, miles away in the Palace of Justice, who was jolted from a dead sleep by the flashing lights at his window. He sent for Captain Malbert.

"The heathen vagabonds are out in full force. Did I not tell you? It's a Witches' Sabbath. I should have known we'd have no peace tonight."

*Clopin's alias translates to "Mr. Happy" but is also a real name.